*****

Many are aware that St. Francis preached to the birds, and St. Anthony to a congregation of fish. But let’s remember that before these saints ever preached to the animals, the animals first preached to them.

This is a true story of a sermon preached by a herd of elephants. The teller of this tale, Dr. Jim Foulkes, grew up in a small town in the midwest where he might easily have stayed all his life, farming or selling insurance, cannily tightening his grip on the ultimate American prize of an existence of complete complacency. Instead, he followed the call of God to go to Africa as a medical missionary, and in his eyes lives the burning light of a man who found the center of his passion and lived it to the full.

As he talked with me late one evening, I began to feel the civilized crust of my westernness cracking, heaved up by something older and wilder, as the very walls of my living room seemed to melt away into the wide open grassy savannah of the dark continent. I heard the pawing and snuffling of elephants, and saw their trunks moving like supple, intelligent trees, and their great parchmenty ears waving dreamily like leaves of an enormous holy book being turned upon a lectern of wind….

“One morning,” began Dr. Jim, “I awoke after dreaming all night long of elephants. It takes a certain mood, an expansiveness of mind, to be able to dream of elephants. It’s not hard to dream of streets and buildings, rooms and stairways; that happens all the time. But to see elephants in the wild, so close that you feel them looming over you—for this, some secret door must open in the psyche, and a very large secret door at that. Just as a camel cannot pass through the eye of a needle, so it is difficult for the eye of civilized man, whether asleep or awake, to catch a glimpse of elephants as they really are, in their natural glory.

“Well, I’d had other plans for the day, but the elephants would not leave me alone. As a hunter I’ve often noticed that before a man sets out to stalk game, the game seems first to stalk him, as if challenging him to come. I know it may sound crazy, but that’s how I felt. The Elephant was calling me. I could practically smell him. As a doc at a remote hospital, part of my unwritten job description was to provide meat for our 200 inpatients. But it was more than that that drew me. It was the pure hunting instinct.

“So I got together a party of ten fellows, and we set off south on motorcycles in the direction of the Kafue Game Park. Often there are more elephants just outside a park than in it, and sure enough on this day, not far from the park boundary, we spied a large herd of twenty-six. We had plenty of time to observe them as they were right out in the open. It was an area known as Lusanga Swamp, which in the dry season is not a swamp at all but one of those vast open plains that are, to the animals of Africa, what the sky is to stars. To see the great swarming herds in such a setting is to be transported back a million years, or even to the beginning of time. Time doesn’t just stand still there, it’s as if it never existed. Something stirs the soul so deeply you can hardly stand it—the mysterious aching beauty of it all.

“Unfortunately for the hunter, a place like this is entirely devoid of cover. There’s not a tree for miles, not even so much as an anthill. Nothing but bald savannah so flat that it renders the sky dome-like, as on the ocean. So we gazed across at those elephants, knowing there wasn’t any way to get near them. I never tire of looking at animals. If hunting had never been invented, I’d still go out just to see them. What especially held our attention this day was the one bull in the herd, a big jumbo with stunning tusks, his back a full two feet higher than the others. We couldn’t believe how big that ivory was, how long and how beautifully curved. How awesome to watch such a creature move in the sunlight, like a song that goes on and on in your mind and there’s one spot, one haunting chord or turn of notes, that slays you every time.

“I should pause to say that this yarn dates from the 1960’s, by which I mean that it might as well have been a thousand years ago. What change the world has seen, especially Africa, in just a few decades! At the time I speak of, no one I knew would have thought for two seconds about banning the ivory trade. There were still jillions of elephants, jillions of everything. Herds of all kinds drifted free and unchanging as clouds up and down the continent. You’d shoot an elephant the same way you’d pick up a hunk of driftwood at the beach and take it home. Today, of course, that’s all over. Today the clouds themselves are changing, the very atmosphere is wearing out. Overnight, it seems, the earth has grown old and decrepit.

“So as we stood on the Lusanga plain staring at that herd of twenty-six giants, we might as well have been on a different planet. I was younger then, too, and my thinking was young. Maybe that day it was the thinking of a kid. I was with a good friend, an African named Kalima, the pastor of our church. Of the others with us, he and I were especially close, and we kept passing the binoculars back and forth, admiring that song-like ivory on the big bull. How can I express the spell that white stuff cast over us? It’s like white gold—only instead of digging it out of a mine you have to get it from under the nose of the most tremendous animal on earth. The challenge of that, the thrill, is sensational. Before I was conscious of it, that thrill was coursing through my veins. And along with that, of course, was the lure of five tons of meat.

“However, we didn’t begin by plotting how to hunt that bull down, not at all. In that situation, the hunting of elephants could not have been more unthinkable—not only, as I mentioned, because there wasn’t a scrap of cover, but because there were young in the herd. Mama elephants, and the aunties too, are madly protective; the faintest whiff of a human being can provoke a full scale charge. While elephants’ eyesight is poor, their sense of smell, especially when their trunks start waving in the air, is extremely precise. In long grass they can run a man down without even seeing him. I’ve watched it happen.

“So I assure you, it was no small thing to consider hunting elephants under these conditions. We deliberated a long time, as all the while the urge was stirring our blood, until finally Kalima and I, with utmost tentativeness, decided to try our luck. The others would have none of it. I don’t think they would have gotten any closer for a year’s wages. But then, isn’t it true that what costs most in life, we do for free? It wasn’t really the meat or the ivory that drove us. For at the risk of ruining a good story, I’ll tell you right now that I never did bag that elephant. But what I did get that day, I wouldn’t trade for all the ivory in Africa.

“Well, in the final analysis we had one crucial factor in our favor: the wind. The wind was for us. Kalima had a spent cartridge filled with flour, and every time he shook a pinch of it into the air, the grains drifted toward us. Seeing that was like having a beautiful girl smile at you. Some days it’s hard to get a reading on the wind; it can’t seem to make up its mind. But this day the direction was steady, constant, over a good period of time. As long as it stayed that way, we knew we’d be invisible to those elephants.

“And so we set out, Kalima and I, first crawling on our knees, then on our elbows, wiggling through the dust like snakes. We had a good distance to cover, and on the way we had lots more time to reflect on what we were doing. At first, I think, we just meant to test the water, see how things went. Maybe we even kidded ourselves that this wasn’t really happening. But with every endeavor there comes a point of no return. Constantly we were checking the wind; every two minutes Kalima would shake out a few grains of flour, and they always drifted back to us. So with this sign of favor, we kept on going, until before we knew it we were well beyond the comfort zone. If at this point the grains had suddenly turned and drifted away from us—however lazily—we would have been done for. We would have just committed a rather extraordinary form of suicide.

“But the wind held and all looked well. The herd was grazing contentedly, quite unawares, and we were closing on them. One thing about elephants: as you get nearer to them they start looking bigger and bigger—supernaturally huge—until eventually you begin to wonder what on earth you are doing out there on the edge of nowhere with a little popgun in your hand. I’ve heard it said that if you can get within a hundred yards of an elephant herd and still lick a postage stamp, you’re either blind or a fool. But the problem is, a hundred yards isn’t close enough to get a shot off. You have to squeeze in to fifty, and believe me, that last fifty is enough to turn you inside out. A hundred yards, by comparison, is like sitting on the beach in Hawaii. But fifty is the magic number, the distance at which you can be relatively certain of making a precise brain shot. An elephant’s head is so massive that anybody who can find the side of a barn can hit it. But the brain itself is only about twenty inches wide, and if you don’t hit the brain, you might as well just run up and tickle the fellow with a feather. So you have to have a pretty good feel for exactly where that little headquarters is, about a third of the way between the ear hole and the eye.

“Well, we got up to a hundred yards, and Kalima wouldn’t go any further. The last fifty I did on my own, and by that point, I think, with every ten yards an elephant about doubles in size. But I covered the distance, and the wind was still right, and the herd was still feeding, contented and secure. Why shouldn’t they be secure? They had a country mile of open space in all directions. They were perfectly safe. Except for me and my little popgun.

“I took a few moments to catch my breath and compose myself as much as possible. No easy task when you’re sitting practically on top of a live volcano, which at any moment might erupt and squash you into porridge. I think the beauty scares you as much as the size. You just can’t believe you’re really there, really doing this. The glorious, wild purity of it! You’re beyond even courage. No amount of mere courage could have brought you this far, to see what you are seeing, to do what you are about to do. No, it’s nothing to do with you anymore. You’re outside yourself. You’re in the most fantastic place in the universe.

“But the really strange part is that once you’re there, in that tiny holy sanctuary of sheer naked reality, you do something that seems wholly irreverent. You shoulder your 458 magnum that packs a wallop harder than a sledgehammer, and you get the brain of that big gorgeous jumbo in the center of your sights, and letting out all your breath, you squeeze off a shot. Just one little finger movement, like scratching your nose. And then you watch that big bull drop right out of sight, and you feel the earth shake beneath your belly, and your whole being explodes into a shout of primeval triumph.

“That’s exactly how it happened. That elephant was a goner, and I was ecstatic. I was praising the Lord! Sure, you might wonder how a guy can involve God in a thing like killing an innocent beast. What can I say? A moment like this is indescribable. Could it possibly taste so good, be so utterly ravishing, if the Lord of the universe weren’t in it? In any case, if only because of the extreme danger, it really is a matter of prayer. All the way out on my knees and belly I’d been praying. If a man doesn’t encounter his God at such a time, I don’t know when he does.

“So the bull was down and I was rejoicing (silently of course), and meanwhile the rest of the herd looked simply bewildered. They’d seen their big daddy crumple like a house of cards. The noise of the shot had scared them, but they had no idea where it came from. It was like a lightning strike. They were mightily puzzled, stunned, but what could they do? The wind was still in my favor, so I was as safe, I figured, as I would have been in my own bed at home.

“But then something utterly unexpected happened. It was like another lightning bolt, only this time in reverse and directed at me. About three minutes went by, and then there was a stirring, a rustling sound, and suddenly that big jumbo stood straight up on his feet! I think he got up even faster than he fell down. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I doubt if I’ll be any more startled on resurrection day. In one split second all my joy clotted into cold terror. Instantly I knew that my bullet had missed the brain—though it must have come pretty close or it never could have knocked him out.

“So the bull was on his feet and looking even more enormous than before. And was he furious! You don’t know what anger is until you’ve seen an incensed bull elephant. He was hurt, he was mad, he was screaming, and in seconds he had enraged the entire herd. It was quite a performance. All their trunks were up and they were stamping their feet, even the little tots. Dust swirled thirty feet in the air. And the noise! When those critters screech, it’s like the blast of the last trumpet. And all this commotion had but one motive, one great and simple thrust: Find the intruder and trample him. When elephants get mad there’s no chance of them running away. They’re afraid of nothing. Their sole thought is to locate and destroy the enemy.

“Well, Kalima and I were shaking in our boots. It was like being tied to a railroad track when the train comes steaming round the bend. There was nothing we could do. The one thing on our side, all along, was the wind. The good old wind was still away from us, and it was obvious those elephants had no clue which way to turn. They could fume and trumpet all they liked, but it wouldn’t change the wind. So we were still invisible.

“But then, wouldn’t you know it, something happened that made the wind factor irrelevant. Life is full of surprises, isn’t it? You see, if Kalima and I had been alone, we might have been okay. But we had eight others with us, eight guys who liked the idea of an elephant hunt so long as they didn’t have to get too close to any elephants. I don’t mean to slight them—but hunting is a risky business. There are ways of reducing the risk, but never completely. And the more risk you eliminate, the more pleasure you lose. I’m talking of deep pleasure, the kind that doesn’t come cheap. You can say the two of us were nuts for being out there at all, on our bellies in the middle of nothing with no cover. But I’ll tell you something: There came a period later in my life when I stopped taking risks, and I never want to be like that again. A man is built to live on the edge, and when he stops living out there he begins, little by little, to die.

“What happened was this: When our eight friends saw those twenty-six elephants start into their war dance, they did the first thing that came into their heads. If only they’d stood their ground we would all have been safe (if you ask me). But there was a grove of trees within sight, close enough to be tempting, and they made for it like jackrabbits. And the movement of so many bodies, even at that distance, caught the elephants’ eye. It was all the tip-off they needed. Immediately they swung round and gave chase. And all at once we had a full-scale elephant charge on our hands.

“Elephants do not gallop. If an elephant wished to catch an express train, he could not gallop, but he could catch the train. I wish I’d been up in a helicopter to watch that charge. It would have been something to see. As it was, Kalima and I bounced straight up in the air just like that bull had done, and we took off like the blazes. If someone had had a stopwatch on us, I think we would have set a world’s record. Not that there was any point in running. An elephant runs so much faster than a man that there’s no contest. Neither was there any possibility of an end-run around one of the flanks, for by then the elephants were using their eyesight, and they were coming like a solid wall. So our situation was plainly and simply hopeless. Still, rather than get trampled lying down, you might as well hoof it and extend your life a few extra seconds.

“Kalima had a head start, but being ten years younger I soon passed him. The first time I looked over my shoulder the herd had halved the distance between us. The ground rumbled and the screams were deafening. Ever try to run when you’re trembling like a leaf? You sort of bounce along like a bag of rubber bands. But we kept on pumping our little arms and legs, and the next time I glanced behind I hardly had to turn at all. Those mammoths were nearly on top of us, mountainous as a tidal wave. Right then and there I gave up the ghost. With the whole world shaking to bits, and that terrible noise like the din of judgment day, what could I do but look into my heart and cry out, ‘Lord, here I come!’ It was all I could think of to say. My final prayer.

“And just at that moment, just when we were all but feeling hot elephant breath on our necks—just then, what do you think happened? The entire herd, as precisely and gracefully as a school of fish, turned on a dime and veered sharply to the right. Yes! Without slackening their pace one iota, as a single animal they bent into the turn like palm trees in a hurricane and thundered off at a ninety-degree angle. It was totally astounding. One second they were hot on our tails, and the next they were showing us their own tails. As for us, we didn’t stop to wave goodbye. We just kept on pumping like crazy till we made it to the trees. And then we ran some more, until finally we collapsed and lay gasping our guts out in that cool, green, wonderful forest. Our lungs like burst balloons, our brains mush—but alive, and muttering incredulous thanks to our God.

“As soon as I got back a rag of breath, I looked at Kalima, who knew elephants much better than I did, and croaked, “What on earth …? Why did that herd turn like that?” For there was no explaining it. Those elephants had us squarely in their sights and were bent on running us down. What could possibly have changed their course?

“Kalima peered back at me out of the shadowy woods, out of his dark face with its big startled eyes, and he gave me what I still think is a very wise answer. In fact it’s the only conceivable answer. What he said was, ‘Man disobeys God, but animals never do. When God speaks, they listen. The Lord must have told those elephants to turn, and they obeyed.’

“Over the years I’ve thought often of that day, and of Kalima’s explanation. As naive as it sounds, I believe it implicitly. And believing it has given me tremendous comfort, confidence, and even a kind of invulnerability. To me it means that until the Lord Himself says the word, nothing can touch me. Not even a raging herd of elephants. Until my work is done, I’m immortal.”

I gave myself a special birthday present (I mean, besides the Bose noise-cancelling headphones that are fantastic!) I also gave myself something entirely immaterial but much more important. Well, I didn’t actually give it, because it had already been given to me. But I reclaimed it.

I reclaimed my given name: Michael. For as long as I can remember I’ve been called Mike, though I have no idea who started that or why. I always accepted the short form, took it for granted, until a few years ago when I began to feel a wistful longing to return to my true name. After all, Michael is a wonderful name—good, solid, biblical. I really think it’s my favorite name of all, and I especially love what it means. It’s Hebrew for Who is like God? In youthful naiveté I used to interpret that phrase as meaning godlike. But no, there’s a question mark at the end. It’s a rhetorical question expressed numerous times in the Bible, as in Exodus 15:11: “Who among the gods is like You, Lord?”

It’s those two little letters at the end of Michael that stand for God, or Elohim—the very letters that the short form of my name omits. Not a good idea to leave God out of the picture!

A couple of years ago I became a Catholic, and I took as my saint’s name Michael, after the archangel. I don’t know how an angel gets to be a saint. Don’t you have to spend time in the flesh to earn that title? In any case, I realized then how much I desired to be Michael myself.

The only problem is that all of my books have appeared under the name of Mike, and there’s no way to alter that. This is what has kept me from making the change long ago. But if a person can’t do what he wants at the age of 60, when can he?

So Michael it is, from now on. I’ll solve the problem of my books by keeping Mike as my pen name. But in my personal life, to all those close to me, I’m Michael.

It’s high time. There is, indeed, no one like God, and having been made in God’s image, I know there’s no one like me, either.

There is a heady, breathtaking freedom in love,
and the marrying kind is the headiest of all.
In a person about to be married
there is a quality of footloose derailment,
as if an old rusty locomotive had suddenly sprouted wings
and soared away from its tracks.
Being engaged is like
entering a new stage of childhood,
like having a new body,
like being a brand new creature just emerged from a cocoon,
with shining skin not quite dry.
One stumbles around, lumbers, cranes, reels.
And what are those ponderous appendages on one’s back,
those preposterous, unwieldy contraptions
that keep lifting one up into the air?

There is an obviousness about true love, a certainty.
To doubt it is to be plunged into darkness and confusion.
But to believe in and accept it is to be filled with light.
There is really nothing else like it.
Few other decisions in life will be anywhere near as crucial
as the decision to love or not to love.
And once made, there can be no reneging.

Make no mistake about it:
the joining of a man and a woman in matrimony
is a supernatural event,
founded upon a mutual exchange of holy pledges—
the only true vows that most people will ever take.
The saying of them requires about thirty seconds.
But keeping them is the work of a lifetime.

A marriage is not a joining of two worlds,
but an abandoning of two worlds
so that one new one can be formed.
The call to be married is like Jesus’ advice to the rich young man
to sell all his possessions and follow.
It is a vocation to total abandonment—
the single most wholehearted step we’ll ever take
toward a fulfillment of Jesus’ command
to love one’s neighbor as oneself.

Finally someone has noticed! Not only that, but my poem has become the lyrics of a song. Follow this link to listen to Marchel Kelley’s beautiful version of “The Lover’s Hermitage.” Thanks, Marchel, for this great gift!

*****

Love, you are my hermitage,
my dwelling for ever.

Just as a happy bachelor
may aspire to be a hermit,
so as your husband[/wife] do I dream
of being more married.

Your body is a path leading
through a golden wood;
your love is a clearing
in the center of the forest.

Here have I built my home,
here in you alone.
With you I know a solitude
deeper than my own.

One table, one rocking chair
by the hearth of you—
and in your face a window
brighter than the sky!

When you smile I’m warmed
like earth in the sun.
Your laugh is the brook
at my doorstep.

Your words are quieter
than my thoughts.
Gladly shall I spend my life
in the cool still hush of you.

Gentler are you than breath,
stranger than death.
Just to touch your hair
is more peaceful than sleep.

Surely all my wandering
finds its end in you.
In the depth of your eyes
may I safely die.

Love, you are my hermitage,
my dwelling for ever.

Well, not exactly the press. Fact is, I’ve just launched my first self-published ebook. Having sent my manuscript to some 30 publishers over the years, I finally decided that this thing needs to see the light of day. 

Adventures in Heaven is the true story of a man who has had multiple (i.e. thousands) of visions of heaven. What is it like in heaven? Is there really a river of life and a holy city? Does the apostle Paul wear little wire-framed glasses? Or how about Mary—does she look like her Son? And how green is the grass?

In one fascinating story after another this book opens the windows of heaven on detailed vistas of the New Jerusalem, the throne room, the altar, heavenly plants and animals, and meetings with biblical figures such as John, Ezekiel, and Moses. 

What’s not to like about such a book? Frankly, I don’t understand why publishers didn’t slaver all over it. Especially these days, when accounts of true experiences of heaven are riding high on the bestseller charts. For example, there’s Todd Burpo’s Heaven Is For Real, the story of his young son’s trip to heaven during emergency surgery. It’s a great read, but it’s nowhere near as extensive and detailed as my book. Nothing is. You won’t find another book anywhere like Adventures in Heaven. That’s why I wrote it.

Is that why publishers won’t touch it? Because it’s too unique, too detailed, too graphic, too RADICAL? But I thought good writing and publishing were all about being radical? I thought the whole point of great writing was to get beyond the average, the status quo, and to say something no one else is saying.

Isn’t that why we read? I’ve always loved that quote from Franz Kafka: “If the book we are reading does not wake us, as with a fist hammering on our skulls, then why do we read it? A book should be an ice-axe to break the frozen sea inside us.”

Adventures In Heaven certainly did that for me. Of all the books I’ve written, it’s my own favorite. Partly because of the wonderful effect it had on me, opening my eyes to the reality of heaven and my heart to its deep truths. But also because no book has given me a sweeter, more joyous, more thrilling ride. From beginning to end, writing it was pure bliss. Every time I touched this book, it rang deep and true.

Is it any wonder that I want to pass on this experience to readers? How perplexing, then, that every publisher and agent I’ve approached with this project has turned it down cold. In my three-decade writing career, it’s the one and only time I’ve been shut out.

How come? It must be because somebody’s crazy, and it’s either them or me.

I vote for them.

For the record, I just want to set down something of this book’s publishing journey, or non-journey. I began by sending it to the various publishers who had worked on my other books, people with whom I had a relationship. That didn’t work.

Next, I sent it to a dozen or so other large Christian publishers. And then I sent it to every other publisher, Christian or secular, who had ever published a book about visions of heaven. In my cover letters I carefully pointed out that these publishers seemed to have an interest in the very subject that my book dealt with in spades.

No luck.

Okay, time to get an agent. I’d never had an agent before. I’d published eight books without one. Agents just didn’t seem necessary. But now I was desperate.

As luck would have it, the phone rang. Out of the blue. And on the line was the biggest Christian literary agent in the biz.

Hot dog! Now things were smokin’! Now I could get my book published….

Or not. I did sign up with the Big Guy, but it turned out that every time I mentioned Adventures in Heaven, he plugged his nose as if it were a rotting fish. No, he had other plans for my career. Big Plans.

After two years, the Big Guy and I parted ways. All his Big Plans had come to nothing, and I was back on my own.

Now what? I turned to writing children’s fiction, and once again, in order to find a market for these books, I had to hire an agent. The new fellow was really nice, and I’m very grateful for his help in getting my novels published.

However, when I tried sending him Adventures in Heaven, a funny thing happened. He dropped me like a hot potato! Over a couple of years we had built a very good, friendly relationship. Now, all of a sudden, he wouldn’t answer my emails or phone messages. Nothing. He never did reply to me. To this day I haven’t heard back from him.

What is it with this book??!! Is it really so bad? Is it poison, or what?

Maybe it is poison. Maybe it’s the best kind of poison: the kind that utterly destroys the spirit of the world and replaces it with the kingdom of heaven.

That’s what I think, anyway. For what it’s worth.

By the way, I forgot to mention that years ago I self-published a paper version of Adventures in Heaven. The print run was 400, I think, all of which sold out quickly. I have just two copies of that edition left, and I don’t mind telling you that they’re the most precious books I own—with the possible exception of the first book I ever published, A Beast With Two Backs, hardcover copies of which are scarcer than a pullet’s molars.

So that’s the story on Adventures in Heaven. You can understand my excitement that now, finally, it’s available as an ebook. Why not check it out and see what all the fuss was not about? At $0.99, it’s a steal.  

One caution, however: I do realize that THIS BOOK IS NOT FOR EVERYONE! It’s very different from any of my other books, and who knows, there may be good reasons why 30 publishers and several agents turned it down.

So there, I’ve warned you. And no, this is not a reverse marketing ploy. You really might not like this book!

Then again, you may love it.

Available only for Kindle, Nook, and other digital platforms.

Read an excerpt. 

From Carrie Padgett of Author’s Choice: “Mike Mason’s story will take its proper place next to Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time and other speculative fiction that points the reader to God and expounds on the nature of good, evil, creation, and redemption.”

From Maria Martin of Book Previews: “A fantastic story…. Mason is an expert wordsmith, and he weaves brilliant plot twists into a simple story to build engaging action…. Most impressive, though, is his ability to use symbolism to integrate faith deftly into the plot.”

From Amy Lignor of Once Upon a Romance: ”I fell head-over-heels in love with The Blue Umbrella. And this time around is no different…. Readers once again take a journey that will have their hearts beating, their tears at the ready, and their brains working overtime as they find themselves immersed in the most beautiful, fantastical book they’ve read in a very long time!”

From Karen Lee: “I just have to tell you how much I enjoyed The Blue Umbrella and The Violet Flash. Those characters and events were so compelling, rewarding, and seemed so very real to me. I barely put the books down. The teenagers in my house wondered why mom was reading children’s novels but your books are for ALL ages. I can hardly wait for the third book and I just adore Chelsea’s character.”

Also, you might want to check out a character study I did of Chesterton Cholmondeley for an Australian website, in which I compare Ches to Harry Potter!

“Well, here we are at Porter’s, the store that has inspired two famous novels!”

So began my talk at the launch party for my new fantasy novel The Violet Flash, sequel to The Blue Umbrella. For all of you who couldn’t be there, here’s a link to a VIDEO of the event. It’s 34″ long, so at any point feel free to fast forward to the Q&A session at 20:42, which went pretty well, I think. Many thanks to Arthur Doerksen for producing the video, and to Ron Koyanagi for providing the music.

I’ll just add that Friday, June 17 was a beautiful evening at Porter’s Store as friends gathered from many different corners of my life to celebrate the new book. We had a packed house and I signed my name about a hundred times—a good number, but nowhere near my previous record of 600 signings in one evening. That was at the launch of my first book, The Mystery of Marriage, and it changed my signature. After about 200 signings my perfectly legible Mike Mason morphed into a sophisticated, scribblesome scrawl in which not a single letter of the English alphabet was discernible. And for the next twenty years, that was my signature …

… until the day just before The Violet Flash launch party, when my wife Karen said, “I wish you’d go back to signing your name in a way that people can read. As it is, noboby knows if you really signed their book, or if it was some kindergarten kid, or maybe a baby—or a worm!”

After that, I relented, and from now on I’ll sign books with the old puerile Mike Mason—puerile because it’s exactly the way I wrote my name when I was a child. And the curious thing is, it looks very much like the printed version of my name on the cover of The Violet Flash. Now there should be no doubt that the author himself has really signed your book!

I ran into a similar problem wondering what to write as an inscription. Many readers want their book signed “To So-and-so,” and usually I add some sort of greeting appropriate to the book’s content. For my book on joy, Champagne for the Soul, I wrote “Cheers!” For The Blue Umbrella I often wrote “Blue Skies!” But when it came to The Violet Flash I was stuck. I had no idea what to say. On the internet I searched for idioms related to the book’s themes, but nothing jumped out at me.

Finally Karen said, “How about De Colores?” Certainly color is a major theme in my book, and we’d both been part of a renewal movement called Cursillo, where De Colores (Spanish for “of the colors”) was the signature greeting, a kind of secret handshake. It refers to the title of a song that everyone in the Spanish-speaking world knows.

“But nobody here will know what it means,” I objected.

“Maybe that’s good,” said Karen. “Makes it interesting. A mystery to be solved.”

I wasn’t persuaded until finally I looked up the lyrics of De Colores. And it turns out they’re a beautiful reflection of just what I meant to convey by the theme of color in my book. So, for all of you who may be wondering why I wrote “De Colores!” in your book, here is the English translation of the lyrics:

In colors, in colors

The fields love to dress in spring.

In colors, in colors

Are clothed the little birds all year.
 
In colors, in colors

Is vested the luminous rainbow.



Spreading the light that illuminates

Divine grace from the great beyond.
 
Spreading the light that illuminates

Divine grace from the great beyond.

(Spoiler Alert! for those who have not read The Blue Umbrella)

Chesterton Cholmondeley poked the bridge of his tortoiseshell glasses with one finger, a gesture he performed a few hundred times a day. Having recovered the years that the evil Dada had stolen from him, Ches was now a lithe, darkly handsome boy of twelve. Yet inside, as if shadowed by a double identity, he still felt old beyond his years.

It was a sunny Monday morning in April, a week before Easter, and he sat alone in his room with a heavy bedspread draping the window. A single sunbeam shone through a pinhole in the fabric and hit a glass prism above his desk, splashing a rainbow on the far wall. Interrupting the beam with his hand, Ches admired the array of clear, natural color on his palm. No pigment could give such intense hue; it was pure light.

Leaning forward to write in his notebook, he noticed his reflection in the mirror: the spectrum was now emblazoned across his forehead like warpaint. In the mirror rainbow the violet band of color was for some reason particularly prominent. Was this due to the angle of incidence? he wondered. Or perhaps to some property of the mirror’s silver backing?

Suddenly the rainbow was extinguished, leaving him in darkness. While the cloud passed, he sat listening to the wind outside. All morning it had blown hard and steady, almost as if it was going somewhere. At breakfast his sister Chelsea had remarked, “It’s like the sky is a big balloon with a hole in it and all the air is rushing out.”

“Sis,” Ches had chided, “there’s no hole in the sky.”

“Okay, Mr. Smarty, then what is wind?”

When Ches launched into an explanation of high and low pressure zones, Chelsea interrupted, “You know very well that wind comes from bins in Porter’s Store.”

Ches snorted. “Maybe it’s stored there, but that’s not where it comes from.”

“It comes from Eldy,” replied Chelsea. “He delivers it.”

“Okay—but where does he get it?”

Puzzlement darkened Chelsea’s face. Then she brightened. “I’ll ask him!”

Ches sighed. They’d been having this sort of conversation a lot lately and it drove him crazy. In Chelsea’s world, one mystery led to another and there was never any real answer. That’s what science was for: it gave you answers.

Ches’s rainbow returned, and he was just readjusting his prism when there came a knock at the door. He started but did not respond. Even when the knock sounded again more urgently, he kept silent.

“Chesterton Cholmondeley!” sang the voice.

Ches hated his full name—not just the preposterous alliteration or how long it took to write, but the fact that Cholmondeley was pronounced Chum-ly, sounding like chummy. Which Ches definitely was not.

“I know you’re in there!” insisted the voice.

Heaving a sigh, Ches drawled, “Enter at your own risk.”

The door opened to admit Zac Sparks, his freckled face looking, as usual, astonished. In the months since Christmas his fiery red hair (which Dada had ordered cut) had grown out into its former puffball.

“What are you doing, Ches, sitting here in the dark on such a nice day?”

Zac strode across the room and was about to flick open the blinds when he realized they were covered with something thick and heavy. As he fumbled around, the thing came down on his head.

“Hey, cut that out!” yelled Ches. “I spent a long time pinning that up.”

“What the . . .” Completely enveloped, Zac struggled to get free.

Ches groaned. It looked as if not one small boy but two or three big ones were thrashing around under the bedspread. Zac was a good kid but highly excitable, like a frisky puppy, always jumping up and licking. After five minutes with him, Ches often felt he wanted to go away and think for a long time.

Finally disentangling himself, Zac spluttered, “What are you trying to do—catch a heffalump?”

“A what?”

“A heffalump. Didn’t you ever read Pooh?”

“Pooh who?”

“You sound like you’re crying!” Zac exploded in laughter. “You know, Winnie-the-Pooh. Didn’t your mother ever read it to you?”

“My mother read me books on science like I asked her to. Why did you go and mess up my bedspread?”

“Because this place feels like a tomb. Here lies Chesterton . . .”

“Don’t call me that. Only Rev calls me that. Or did.”

Ches dropped his eyes. For the past four months his father, Reverend Cholmondeley, had lain in the back bedroom in a coma. Ches had not visited him once and rarely referred to him. “So what’s up?” he asked.

“The sky,” said Zac. “And this.” He waved in the air the latest edition of the Big City Times. “Bet you haven’t heard.”

Even from where he stood Ches could read the bold headline:

PLANE CRASH KILLS 109

“So? That stuff happens all the time.”

“Not like this,” said Zac. “Check it out.”

He pointed to a smaller headline at the bottom of the page:

CRASH DUE TO LOST SECOND?

Ches took the paper and read on:

Scientists are puzzled over the apparent disappearance of a second from the world’s most sophisticated clocks.

From around the world came reports of other strange events occurring precisely at midnight, including the crash of United Airlines flight 207 . . .

Ches’s reading was interrupted by another knock. “What is this, Grand Central Station?”

Without invitation the door burst open to reveal the bright eyes and shiny black hair of Chelsea. “Hi, you guys! Umbrella time. We’re painting frost panels today.”

Ches grimaced. It was spring break and Sky Porter had announced a special week-long weather school. But lately Ches’s interest in Sky’s weather classes (normally on Saturdays) had declined. Or rather, increasingly his interests had narrowed to a particular field. Ever since seeing a spectacular glory on top of Wind Mountain at Christmas, Ches had been fascinated by what was known as meteorological optics: the study of celestial light displays including glories, rainbows, auroras, and haloes. If he knew the weather class would address one of these topics, Ches was keen; otherwise he’d sooner stay home and work on his optical experiments.

Besides, he found Sky Porter an unsettling person. Frankly, he found people in general unsettling. But since the storekeeper had entered his life, Ches’s world had been changing so fast that he kept looking for ways to put on the brakes. A born scientist, he couldn’t grasp how all weather—wind, rain, earthquakes, light itself—could be controlled by a man across the street with a blue umbrella.

“Think I’ll sit this one out,” he told Chelsea.

“But even Iris is coming.”

“So?”

“Good for her,” said Zac. “She needs to get out of that room.”

Ever since her release from the World’s Smallest Business Establishment, eleven-year-old Iris (the former Barber) had been living with the Cholmondeleys and helping to care for the Reverend. Tom Pethybridge had lived there, too, until his parents were located and he moved to the Big City. Neither Tom nor Iris had shown any interest in learning the secrets of the blue umbrella. As Iris put it, “I’ve had enough magic to last me a lifetime.”

“C’mon, Ches,” said Zac, “you need out of your room too. You and Iris are both cave dwellers.”

Irked at being linked with someone who spent her days changing his father’s diapers, Ches was about to take Zac’s head off when he remembered he had a question for Sky. So, with a sigh, he grabbed his jacket and the three of them headed out.

In the hallway they met Iris, who flashed Ches a big smile.

“Thought you weren’t interested in this stuff,” he muttered.

“Chelsea keeps pestering me. I’m just going to watch.”

“The umbrella’s too fun just to watch,” said Chelsea. “At least try making thunder or something.”

Outside it was so windy they had to lean forward as though plodding uphill. It was a cold wind for April and Ches clutched at his collar. Crossing the street to Porter’s Store, Zac asked him what he thought of the newspaper article.

“Beats me. Time doesn’t just disappear.”

“It goes somewhere,” said Zac. “I wonder where?”

Zac kept chattering but Ches tuned him out, listening instead to Chelsea. Much as he hated to admit it, after his sister’s five years of total silence he loved the sound of her musical voice.

“Sky told me a story and I painted it,” she was saying. “Wait till you see.”

Ascending to the Weatherworks by the back stairs, the children found Sky surrounded by large, white, crystalline panels mounted on easels. Blue umbrella in hand, he stood before the sparkling canvasses like an artist with a brush.

Ches stared, surprised to find himself genuinely intrigued. Just when he thought he’d seen everything, Sky came up with something new. The panels were a good eight feet high by about four wide.

“Is that what it looks like?” he asked.

“Yes—window frost!” enthused Chelsea. “Isn’t it cool?”

“If you mean the weather’s turned colder . . .”

“I did these other panels this morning,” she continued. Pointing out different features, she bounced on her heels. “Way up there, that’s mountains, snow-covered, with caves and everything. And sailing around the peaks are white eagles. Down here, in the valleys, it’s summer with all kinds of trees and flowers. And this is a castle and over here is a column of knights on horseback with banners fluttering . . .”

“Awesome!” cried Zac.

“Wait a minute,” said Ches, squinting. “I don’t see any of that.”

“Maybe you’re too close.”

“I see it!” exclaimed Iris. “There’s the king out in front, and the princess in her long dress . . .”

“Yes!” Chelsea clapped her hands.

“You guys have some imagination.”

“You’re right, Ches,” laughed Sky. “It takes imagination to see truly.”

Ches stared harder at the frost pictures.

Iris said, “I always thought this was done by Jack Frost.”

Chelsea performed an elaborate bow, including the doffing of an imaginary plumed hat. “Jill Frost, at your service. Do you want to try your hand, Iris?”

“Oh, no!” Iris backed away. “I only came to watch.”

“May I show her, Sky?” Eagerly Chelsea took the umbrella and began to draw on a blank, transparent ice panel. Wherever the umbrella’s tip touched, little puffs of vapor appeared, leaving a frosted impression accompanied by a tintinnabulous sound like snowflakes falling on tinfoil. An image of Eldy’s Balloon and Flower Stand began to emerge, complete with the figure of Eldy, bent double as he arranged a bouquet. At a certain point, before their eyes, the picture seemed to come to life. Even Ches noticed it.

“Wow!” said Zac. “I didn’t know you could draw so well.”

“Sometimes,” observed Sky, “art is a matter of discovering the right medium.”

Unsettled by the vividness of the image, Ches backed away. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was just coming up to noon.

“Can I try?” asked Zac.

“Let Iris try,” said Chelsea, offering her the umbrella. “Do you want to?”

Iris shook her head briskly.

“Then at least let me show you the inside. May I, Sky?”

“Go ahead.”

Chelsea undid the umbrella’s fastener and slid the golden ring up the shaft. The spreaders opened to the familiar sound of the cloth canopy rustling like wings.

Just then the whole building shook with the pounding of the wind.

“Whoa!” said Ches. “Maybe you shouldn’t . . .”

But Chelsea was already lifting the umbrella aloft like a sail. “Look, Iris, the inside is exactly the same as the sky itself!”

Gingerly Iris crept closer.

“See—the same beautiful blue, the same sailing clouds . . .”

Again the wind thumped the building, so hard that Ches felt it in his chest. Then he heard a loud rip as of canvas tearing. And what happened next tore at his heart.

He was looking right at his sister when she lifted off like a rocket and disappeared into the umbrella’s canopy.

One moment she was there, and the next moment she was not.

The umbrella clattered to the floor.

“We have a wonderful heritage of fantasy writers for children who desire to capture the truths of the Christian faith in their books—George MacDonald, C.S. Lewis, Madeleine L’Engle, and now Mike Mason.” -D.S. Martin

“As a professional editor and aspiring novelist myself, I can only say that Mike Mason’s The Blue Umbrella is easily one of the best books I’ve ever read … It’s a great read for any adult or young adult as a fantasy story, but when you drill down and find layer upon layer of brilliant allegory woven in, you’ll want to read it again and experience the depths.” -John David Kudrick

“The Blue Umbrella speaks to all ages and carries themes that will enrapture its readers and fill them with hope.” -Amy Browning

“Mason’s book is certainly among the ‘best of the best.’ I couldn’t put it down and neither will you.” -Amy Lignor

“This fresh tale, reminiscent of Roald Dahl and C.S. Lewis, has Classic written all over it.” -Violet Nesdoly

“For some time, Christian literature has lacked fairy tales in the Narnian tradition, tales which reveal truth about ourselves and the gospel. Thankfully, Mike Mason has debuted The Blue Umbrella.” -Gabe Knipp

“As a novelist, Mason has it all: vivid and convincing characterization; engaging dialogue; absorbing and unpredictable plotting with an underpinning of serious concerns; humour which entertains without distracting from the narrative; and above all, a fine writing style…. It’s no exaggeration, in my view, to call this book a classic for fantasy lovers of all ages.” -David F. Dawes

“I’ve loved all of Mike Mason’s writings—his imaginative short stories, his thoughtful essays on vital topics like marriage, children, and joy. Now, here’s another side of Mason: The Blue Umbrella begins a series of wild and wonderful novels where invention truly takes flight…. Reading this magical work makes me wish for my own blue umbrella, makes me hope that this series will join others in the minds of readers who loved Madeleine L’Engle’s sci-fi writings. As L’Engle herself insisted, this kind of fiction is not just for children. It’s for people. People like you!” -Luci Shaw, author of Breath for the Bones and The Angles of Light.

“I expect great things for The Blue Umbrella…. You can’t go wrong with this book!” -Becky Warkentin, House of James bookstore.

“Bravo! Fantastic! Beautifully done! … I’m so excited to read the next volume!” -Matt Erickson

“The three of us have read your book many times each and absolutely adore it! Our Grade 7/8 class does a monthly book report and we chose to make a video presentation of our favourite book, The Blue Umbrella!” -Faith, Kayly, & Sarah

“This book is an absolute treasure!” -Laura

“When I gave The Blue Umbrella to my son he was skeptical … but he stayed up ALL night reading it! Now that’s a compliment. He LOVES it!” -Carol-Ann Flanagan

“This is the BEST book I have ever read! You HAVE to read it too!” -Emma, nine years old

“My son Asher has been saying for weeks that he wants to meet Mike Mason! We have both thoroughly enjoyed your book…. I love your use of the English language. It is a long time since I have read such wonderful sentences.” -David Chapman

Good evening, everyone. Thank you all for coming out.

I saw a bumper sticker recently that said, “Having a wonderful time. Wish I were here.” Well, I’m not much of a party person, but I can assure you that tonight I am here and I am having a wonderful time!

This is a great occasion for me, because it’s the launch not only of a new book but of a new career. When I first began to dream of being a writer at the age of eleven, I assumed I would write novels. Fiction, I thought, was where it was at. Now I am 57, and while The Blue Umbrella is my tenth book, it’s my first novel. Why it took me so long to grow up is a long story, but tonight I’m just happy finally to be a novelist.

I think that’s something to celebrate. And how better to celebrate than by opening an umbrella indoors? You thought this was a book launch, but really it’s a Grand Opening! I hope none of you are superstitious. While I was writing this book, many times I opened my umbrella indoors, and as far as I know it caused me no harm. So here goes.

Gandalf has his staff.
Harry Potter has his wand.
Luke Skywalker has his light saber.
And Sky Porter has his blue umbrella!

At this point, to a round of applause, I opened my spring-loaded, blue-sky-with-fluffy-clouds umbrella.

And now for another Grand Opening …

Here I opened the book itself and read from Chapter One, followed by several other readings interspersed with comments. I think my favorite was the beginning of Chapter 8 which describes Zac’s first visit to Porter’s Store. It was so fun to be reading this passage aloud in the very building that had inspired it!

Rather than trying to reproduce my other comments, what follows is a conflation of two interviews I’ve done, one with a blogger and the other with a university newspaper:

What memorable events have you enjoyed with the release of The Blue Umbrella? Can you share a favorite moment with a fan? A memory of holding the finished volume in your hand? What stands out most about this fiction debut?

The best part was my book launch at the real Porter’s Store, just three blocks from where I live. It was one of the most wonderful events of my life. Not since my wedding day (27 years ago!) had so many people that I know gathered in one room. And it was a great community event. Before this, as a writer of non-fiction, none of my other books was really rooted in a particular place. But with this one I love the feeling of the neighborhood connection. One neighbor played jazz piano, the store managers were as excited as I was, and the owner even baked cookies in the shape of blue umbrellas! As for a favorite moment with a fan, I think it was the little boy who asked, “Are you famous?” I suppose I should have said something about there being degrees of fame (“I’m not as famous as Hannah Montana!”), but instead I just beamed and said, “Right now it sure feels like it.”

The Blue Umbrella is your first journey into fiction. What drew you to the children’s fiction genre? Were you surprised by Zac Sparks’ adventure as it flowed from your mind to the page?

About ten years ago I started reading children’s fiction for the first time as an adult, and I’m still at it. I find it so refreshing. Children’s literature is allowed to be idealistic in a way that modern adult literature is not. There are happy endings, heroic characters, a clear battle between good and evil, and portals leading to other worlds—all things that reflect, I believe, the deepest truths of life. Writing one of these stories for myself has been an amazing experience. I was at a point in my writing life where I needed a new challenge, and I definitely got it! With the change to a new genre, suddenly I was in the midst of a very steep learning curve, and I often felt terrified. What was going to happen next? Could I really do this? How would it end? So yes, I was very surprised at how the story took on a life of its own and tumbled, or sometimes stumbled, forward. Eventually I learned to relax and just trust the process. Which is very interesting, considering that my story is fundamentally about learning to trust.

Can you say more about that?

The book begins with a lively ten-year-old boy named Zac Sparks whose life suddenly changes. His mother is killed by lightning and he’s sent away to live with two cruel old aunts in a town called Five Corners that is full of dark mysteries. In this grim situation, Zac must determine where the light is shining and who he can trust. So it’s really a story about learning to trust in the midst of despair.

What made you want to write about an orphan?

We are all essentially alone in the world. Children, I think, at a certain point in growing up, feel this acutely. Certainly others can help us, but when it comes to facing difficult problems, ultimately we must go it alone, finding our own answers, our own courage. This puts us squarely in the place where, possibly, we can have a transcendent experience.

What is the significance of the blue umbrella?

The blue umbrella is what Alfred Hitchcock called a McGuffin. In a movie or novel the McGuffin is the physical object around which all the action centers. In The Lord of the Rings, for example, it’s the ring. In my book it’s the blue umbrella that belongs to Sky Porter. Why does he always carry it? What does it do? Why does Dada want it so badly? The blue umbrella is shrouded in mystery—a mystery so wonderful that I wish I could tell you all about it. I think it’s worth reading the book just to find out.

Weather is a significant theme in the book. What is your favorite kind of weather and why?

I’m not a sunny day sort of person. Like Zac’s mother in my book, I love weather with character, especially thunder and lightning and wind. This goes back to my childhood when, like Zac, I used to stay up with my mother late at night to watch storms. As it happens, the place where I live now (on the west coast) doesn’t have much electrical activity, but we do get a lot of rain. There’s nothing I like better than an all-day rain. It’s great writing weather!

You have a daughter. What weather events have you enjoyed together?

When Heather was about ten we had a holiday at a lakeside cottage. It rained solidly for several days, until we were sick of it. On Sunday we decided to have a little family church service. We read scripture, sang, and talked to God and about Him. Then at the end, moved by the Spirit, we did a sun dance! You’ve heard of rain dances? Well, this was a sun dance, to make the rain stop and bring out the sun. After all, it was Sunday! So we danced around the cottage and whooped it up and had ourselves a ball. And an hour later the sun came out and it stayed sunny the rest of our holiday.

What has been your most memorable weather event?

I’ve known some extreme weather, especially the tremendous blizzards when I lived on the prairies. There have been times when I didn’t know if I’d come out alive. But my most memorable weather event was actually very peaceful and beautiful. Again I was at a cottage with my family, only this time I was the ten-year-old child. I was on a hike with my parents and we got caught in a downpour. We found refuge in the woods, where my dad built a fire, and for the next few hours we sat around that campfire and had the most beautiful family time, with the sound of the rain all around us. I still have the wooden spoon that my dad carved for me with his jackknife that day. My father was a very busy man and I didn’t get much time with him. But that day I had him and my mom all to myself and I felt so happy and protected.

You stated in the After Words section of the book that the spiritual allegory was not intentional. However, the final scenes seem to reflect a deep sense of the gospel message (e.g. the color of Sky Porter’s second umbrella will be seen by many as representative of the blood of Christ). Were you pleased that the story so effortlessly represents your faith? Do you hope that others will sense your message as they read?

“The story effortlessly represents my faith”: Yes, this is exactly what happened. The red umbrella is a good example of a symbol that presented itself entirely naturally. Of course I could have made that umbrella some other color. But if the story itself wants to go to Connecticut, and I see a signpost that says “Connecticut,” then I’ll take that road. Writing is a matter of following, not forcing. I was deeply pleased to find myself writing a story with such spiritual significance, and I do hope readers will notice this and talk about it. But I’m also pleased that the book can, I think, be enjoyed without one being fully aware of this other dimension. If the story works well in its own right, then its spiritual truth can still be felt as a resonance, a perfume, that lingers in a reader’s heart. This is what C.S. Lewis meant by “baptizing the imagination,” and it’s what I experienced when his book The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe was first read to me as a child. I had no idea of its Christian significance, but the story stayed with me powerfully.

What exciting things is God doing in your life? Any closing words of encouragement you’d like to share with your readers?

Finding the courage to identify myself as a fiction writer, committing to writing a long novel, and struggling through every difficulty to finally give it birth, has brought me to a mountaintop experience. I’ve never been happier or felt more free in my life, and I find myself with the closeness to God that I’ve always dreamed of. What happened is that I didn’t just write a novel, but I went on an epic journey myself. Although my book is a fantasy, in order to write it I, too, in my real life, had to face down villains, slay dragons, slog through darkness, and eventually emerge into the light. As I look around myself now, I see the battlefield strewn with the corpses of my enemies, and I am a new person. So I would challenge my readers to embark on a similar journey. It may not be writing a novel, but what is it for you? What is God stirring in your heart? Take hold of that dream and pursue it with all you’ve got, and don’t stop until you’ve achieved it.